


(Only) In Our Minds

by LylaRivers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley is a good partner, Heaven is abusive, Heaven is awful, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, anxious!aziraphale, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: If he were human, he’s sure his heart would beat out of his chest. His body aches, and it feels as though he’s going to explode. He’s never, ever felt anything like this in his six thousand years on Earth- or in the immeasurable existence before the Earth was created and Time truly started.Is this what it feels like to Fall?Post Apoca-nope, Aziraphale starts to experience panic attacks.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 171





	(Only) In Our Minds

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, time to project onto the other one of these two fools! Big shout out to the Ace Omens discord for cheering me on, as this one turned into a beastie on me- it’s been in the works for 4 months. 
> 
> Most of the depictions of Aziraphale’s panic attacks are based on my own. The descriptions of the trauma that Heaven put Aziraphale through are based on several tumblr meta posts and not described directly.
> 
> Title is from Sweet Sacrifice by Evanesence.

The first time it happens, Aziraphale is in his shop, alone. The bell over the door jangles, announcing the appearance of a customer, despite the fact that Aziraphale is  _ sure _ that the door was locked. Aziraphale feels his heart start to race- they’ve come back to  _ find _ him, they’ve discovered the ruse, they  _ know _ that Crowley took his place in the Hellfire. 

Crowley had refused to give him a cursed lighter of Hellfire, claiming it was too dangerous. Instead, he had given the angel a fire poker, tip eternally encased in a pocket Hell dimension, heated from the fires of Hell. 

Aziraphale pulls that fire poker out now, wielding it well away from his body. His vision is going white, from the fear that Heaven has finally caught up to him. He holds the poker like a sword, and rounds on the door. 

“Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for an annotated copy of  _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream, _ do you happen to…” a very confused human says. “Oh!”

“We’re closed,” Aziraphale snaps, mind racing. Is this a human croney of the archangels?

“But your door was…”

“We’re  _ closed,”  _ Aziraphale says firmly. “It’s a code violation to keep the door locked when employees are in the shop. Get out.”

The human scampers, and Aziraphale rests the poker back in its pocket dimension. He has enough presence of mind to smooth over the human’s thoughts, erasing the image of himself with the poker wielded like a sword. If he were human, he’s sure his heart would beat out of his chest. His body aches, and it feels as though he’s going to explode. He’s never, ever felt anything like this in his six thousand years on Earth- or in the immeasurable existence before the Earth was created and Time truly started. 

_ Is this what it feels like to Fall? _

Aziraphale whines, somewhere deep in the back of his throat. Could this be it? After six thousand years of hedonism, of trading miracles and temptations with an agent of Hell, is this what finally does him in?

The thought makes his heart race even faster. He locks the shop with a thought, and collapses on the floor of the shop with a whimper. It hurts- the thought of being cut off from Grace, of losing Her Love. 

He should be more concerned that he’s not upset about losing Heaven and the fellowship of other angels, as well. The only thing that might hurt him about Falling is the thought of losing the Almighty, and Her eternal Love. Crowley was right- the other angels are wankers. 

Without conscious thought, his wings pop out, and cover him from head to toe. The feathers are still white- perhaps he hasn’t Fallen yet. Perhaps it takes time for the feathers to blacken. 

Perhaps the feathers all burn in the Fall itself, but because he’s not in Heaven, they haven’t been set on fire yet. 

The thought makes him whine again, and he curls the still white wings around himself further, unable to do more than rock back and forth and cry. 

It’s how Crowley finds him nearly an hour later, huddled in his wings, sobbing. “Angel, hey, what’s wrong?” the demon asks. 

Aziraphale parts his wings to look at the demon, kneeling in front of him, golden yellow eyes drenched in concern. “What happens when you Fall?” he asks. 

“You’d know,” the demons says shortly. “Aziraphale, you Fall through multiple dimensions all at once and your wings burn. If you were Falling, you’d be in Hell by now. Aziraphale, what’s  _ wrong _ ?”

Aziraphale shivers. “Something’s happening to me…” he whispers. “I can’t… I feel… it hurts. It hurts so badly. I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

“Angel, you don’t need to breathe,” Crowley says, brushing the angel’s cheek with his thumb. 

“It hurts,” Aziraphale repeats.

Crowley scoops the angel up. “Come on. This can’t be comfortable,” he says. He carries Aziraphale up the stairs to the little-used flat, and settles the two of them on the four poster bed, shoving books to the side. “Tell me what happened, angel.”

“Well, I was… I was in the shop… and the bell… the bell rang, but the door was locked… and the bell rang… and I thought… I thought… I thought Heaven caught up to us… that Heaven… that they knew… knew we swapped,” Aziraphale gasps out. 

Crowley wraps his arms around the still-quivering angel. “Go on,” he murmurs. 

“Well, I pulled out the poker… but then… then it was only a human,” Aziraphale says. “But my heart wouldn’t stop beating so fast, and I thought… what if… what if I was Falling?”

“Oh, angel. You’re not Falling. You’d know if you were Falling. It takes a minute but feels like an eternity,” Crowley says. He sets one hand in Aziraphale’s wings, and strokes the soft down feathers. The angel shivers against his touch. “Is this alright?” Crowley asks.

“Oh… yes,” Aziraphale says. 

The demon gets to work. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s feathers, stretching the wings out to their full length. “Oi, angel. Your wings are a mess,” Crowley says. “When was the last time you groomed them?”

“Oh, dear. I’m not sure,” Aziraphale dithers, reassured by the normalcy of the bickering. “Possibly… before the Great War? I’ve never… it’s so difficult to groom them yourself, so I had been going to Heaven to get them cleaned up, but after that, I was just so busy, and it’s not like anyone down here could do it for me, and..”

“Are you saying that you haven’t groomed your wings in over  _ one hundred years _ ?” Crowley asks. 

“Well, I tried to get the edges, sometimes,” Aziraphale says. “But I’m simply not flexible enough to reach further up on the wing.”

“You really are dumb, sometimes,” Crowley says fondly. “I would have happily helped you, you know.”

Aziraphale twists around to stare at him. “I couldn’t… it was dangerous to ask you, my dear.”

“I would have done it anyways.”

“I know you would have- that was why I couldn’t have asked you,” Aziraphale says, anguished. 

Crowley rests one hand in the angel’s curls. “Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he says reassuringly. “I understand why you didn’t feel like you could ask me. But you  _ can _ ask me, you know. Now. I like taking care of you.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Cause I’m in love with you, dumbass,” Crowley says, carding his fingers through the angel’s curls. “You know, when you’re happy, you get this look on your face, as though you’re seeing kindness for the very first time, and I… I like being the one to make you make that face.”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks go red. “I…” 

“Forget it, that was really mushy,” Crowley says quickly. 

“No it was… it was really sweet,” Aziraphale says. “You just surprised me, my dear.”

“‘M like that. Full of surprises,” Crowley says. They fall back into silence, Crowley slowly putting bedraggled feathers back to rights. 

“Hey, angel?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asks sleepily. He’s settled down significantly from the demon’s hands in his wings, and his heart rate has returned to a normal tempo in his chest. 

“Has something like this ever… ever happened to you?” Crowley asks, fingers never stopping their path through his feathers. 

“No, never,” Aziraphale responds. “Why?” 

“Just wondering, angel.” But he doesn’t elaborate, and they continue on in silence.

***

The next time it happens, he’s in St. James Park, sitting on their usual bench, waiting for Crowley to meet him before lunch. He’s done this a thousand times before, sitting and waiting for the demon to show up, pretending to  _ not _ be waiting for him.

This day, however, something is different. Crowley is late, again. Not that he was ever inclined to be punctual, in all their years of acquaintance. 

But he hasn’t been late since their respective trials.

As with the time in the bookshop, the first inkling that something is wrong is that Aziraphale’s heart starts to race. He looks around wildly, but there’s nothing amiss around. 

At least- nothing regularly, immediately apparent.

Aziraphale whimpers, unable to control his sudden angst. His chest hurts, and his vision starts to go white around the edges. What if something  _ happened _ to the demon? What if demons came and dragged him back to Hell? What if Heaven found them out, and has come after Crowley in retaliation against them both (but mostly him)?

What if, what if, what if?

His heart beats faster, and he can’t turn the damned thing off, like he should be able to. 

He’s in public. He can’t pull out his wings, make sure he hasn’t Fallen. But Crowley says that he’d  _ know _ . He’d know if he had Fallen.

He’d know. 

Still, Aziraphale can’t resist folding his feet up underneath him, tucking his knees to his chest. It doesn’t help the racing of his heart, but it is at least marginally less exposed than he was sitting normally. He clutches his knees, and whimpers softly. 

If they’re going to find him, he won’t be difficult to take down. 

Someone sits next to him, a tinge of demonic scent about them. Aziraphale lashes out on instinct, striking the being next to him with his boot toe. His vision clears, and he realizes that he’s kicked  _ Crowley _ . The demon is staring at him in clear shock.

“If you’re not happy to see me, angel, I can go and we can take a rain check,” Crowley says. 

“I’m so sorry dear,” Aziraphale babbles. “I didn’t think… I wasn’t… I didn’t… I’m sorry.” 

“Angel, are you alright?” Crowley asks suspiciously.

Aziraphale’s heart beats in his chest thunderously like a traitor. “No, no, everything is just fine,” he lies. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

“I'm fine, dear.”

“You don’t look fine,” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes through the sunglasses. “You look a bit gray around the edges.” 

“No, it’s… I’m not… I’m fine,” Aziraphale lies again.

Crowley flicks out his tongue briefly. His tongue remains human shaped, but he’s clearly still scenting the air. “Angel, your heart is racing again,” Crowley says after a few moments. “What happened this time?” 

“Nothing much, dear.”

“Liar.” 

“It’s truly nothing, Crowley.” 

Crowley glares at him, apparent even through the glasses. “You’re a shit liar, Aziraphale. Angels shouldn’t try to lie- you have a dead giveaway.”

“If you must know, I was worried something had happened to you after you were about ten minutes late,” Aziraphale concedes. “As I said, it’s really nothing. Not a big deal. It’s just…”

“It’s just the second time something like this has happened since the Apocalypse that wasn’t,” Crowley cuts him off. “Come on, angel. Two times is the beginning of a pattern. You can’t pretend this is nothing.” 

“Two times is…”

“More than it’s ever happened in the last six thousand years,” Crowley cuts in. “Angel, that is a clear pattern in a downward trend.” 

“What if Falling is different, this time?” Aziraphale asks. “Since I’m not in Heaven. I can’t be dropped off of the firmament, so what if… what if this is how it is, now?” 

“Falling isn’t… it’s not a long, drawn out thing, not at first,” Crowley says. “There’s no real warning, just suddenly you’re dropping through multiple dimensions and your wings are on fire. There’s no lead up to it. It just… happens.” 

“What if it’s different, this time?” Aziraphale asks. “What if She wants me to suffer?”

“You, specifically, as opposed to all of the angels who dared to defy Her in the revolution?” Crowley asks sarcastically. “Angel, that’s hardly rational.” 

“But what if…?” Aziraphale asks, unable to finish the thought. 

“Angel. Breathe for me,” Crowley says. “In… now hold it… and out.” Aziraphale tries to do as he was ordered, but he can’t make himself get enough air in his lungs to hold it in. “Come on, angel,” Crowley says, taking hold of his hand. 

Aziraphale tries desperately again, trying to hold the air in his lungs. It’s not working very well for him. “I… can’t…” he says.

“Let’s take that lunch rain check anyways, hmm?” Crowley says. 

“Wha…? But…?”

Crowley leans against the angel’s ear, mouth just a few inches from him. “Last time, I calmed you down by grooming your wings, but we can hardly do that here, hmm? Let’s go back to the shop.” 

“Oh, uhh, yes, you’re quite right, alright,” Airaphale says, and lets Crowley lead him out of the park to the Bentley. 

He shivers in the passenger seat of the car, breathing a sigh of relief that he didn’t know he needed as the door closes behind him. 

“Zira? How are you doing?” Crowley asks, as he puts the car into gear. 

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, staring out the window at the cars passing by. “Crowley, what’s happening to me?” 

“I don’t know, angel,” Crowley says. “I know that you’re not Falling, but more than that… I don’t know.” 

***

They only get more frequent from there. Any time someone gets too close to colliding with him, any time he’s in particularly crowded areas or open spaces, any time he hears a particular chime or loud noise. 

He starts to get used to the feeling of his chest ripping apart. He never fully adjusts, but it gets easier to recover with every passing attack.

He always checks his wings. They never change. 

One day, Anathema comes to London. She mentioned on the phone that she was looking for a history post doc position, now that the Apocalypse was over and she could finally live her life prophecy free. Aziraphale immediately offered to host her at the bookshop for the three day interview process.

While she’s at one of the interview events, it happens again. Anathema returns in the evening to find Aziraphale huddled in the corner of the back room, wings drawn around him. “Aziraphale? Is everything alright?”she asks. 

“Fine, fine. Just tickety boo,” Aziraphale lies. 

He still lies to Crowley every time. Or tries to.

Anathema glares. “I’ve never seen you with your wings out. What happened?”

“It’s… just a thing that’s started happening,” Azirahphale says cagily. Not that he doesn’t trust Anathema- but he can hardly expect her to understand, either.

“That sounds like a steaming pile of bullshit,” Anathema says.

Ah. Americans and their directness. “I’ve… well, since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, I’ve been having these… episodes,” Aziraphale begins. 

“Episodes?” Anathema prompts him, when he fails to continue. 

“I think… I think something bad is happening to me,” Aziraphale confesses in a rush. “My heart starts to race, and my chest aches, and sometimes my vision goes white. Crowley says I’d know if I was Falling- that it happens all at once, not drawn out like this. But it can’t be normal, either.” 

“Hmm. You say you’ve never experienced this before?” Anathema says. “I’ve heard of them starting after a large trauma, for sure, and the Apocalypse could definitely have been a stressor. Are there any particular triggers? What started it?”

“You know what it is?” Aziraphale asks, desperate.

“I have a theory,” Anathema says. “Aziraphale, have you ever heard of a panic attack?” 

“A what?” 

“A panic attack. It’s… well, it’s exactly what it sounds like. It’s particularly common in generalized anxiety disorder and post traumatic stress disorder, as well as in several other psychological disorders. What you’re describing sounds an awful lot like the manifestation of a new case of posttraumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, or possibly a new reaction to an old panic disorder.” 

Aziraphale gapes at her. “I… I don’t… maybe… so I’m not dying? Or Falling?” 

“No, Aziraphale. You’re neither Falling nor dying,” Anathema reassures him. “Tell me a little more about it, so we can figure out which etiology it most likely is.”

“Well…” Aziraphale says, trying to restart his thoughts. “It might… I don’t… the first time, a customer came into the shop, and the doorbell rang. I had to take the bell off of the door, after it happened twice more that way.”

“Did something happen during Armageddon involving your doorbell?” Anathema asks.

Aziraphale frowns, thinking. “Now that you mention it… yes. Gabriel and Sandalphon came into the shop, just before things began to happen.”

“Alright, good. When else have you noticed this happening?” Anathema asks.

“There was the time that I went to meet Crowley in St. James Park. He was a little late, and I… and I…”

“And you panicked,” Anathema finishes for him. 

“And I panicked,” Aziraphale agrees. “That’s where our former employers came for us on Sunday.”

“That follows the post traumatic stress pattern, then. When else?” 

Aziraphale tucks his wings away, and pulls himself up and over to the couch. “When people get too close to me, sometimes,” Aziraphale says. “Or when I’m in crowded areas. Or when I’m in big, open spaces.” 

Anathema nods. “Do either of those correspond with an event from the Apocalypse?”

“Sandaphon, Michael, and Uriel cornered me outside my shop,” Aziraphale says slowly, thinking. “Sandalphon slammed me into a wall. And none of the archangels have ever had much care for my personal space.”

“That makes sense,” Anathema agrees. 

Aziraphale chews on his lip. “Heaven is… it’s made of big, open spaces- cold, white and sterile. There’s nothing warm about it, though. It’s all impersonal and reserved.”

“Thus the wide open spaces,” Anathema says.

“Thus the wide open spaces,” Aziraphale agrees. “And Hell… Hell is the exact opposite. It’s all crowded, and damp and miserable. All the demons are packed jowl to cheek, with barely any elbow room to speak of. It’s grimy, and wet, and slimy.”

“It’s everything Heaven isn’t,” Anathema says.

“I don’t know if they made it that way, or if it became that way over time,” Aziraphale says. “Either way, it’s awful.”

Anathema nods to herself. “Well, that covers every instance of a panic attack that you’ve told me about,” he says. “The bell in the bookshop, the park, Heaven and Hell. Any other major, reoccuring triggers?” 

“I think that covers it quite well,” Aziraphale says, frowning in thought.

“Have you considered that you should go see a therapist?” Anathema asks. Aziraphale makes a noise of protest. “Look, I’m just saying… these things don’t usually go away on their own.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at her. “And just how do you propose that I talk about the inciting events? Hello, my name is Aziraphale, I’m an angel of the Lord, and I’m recovering from the aborted Apocalypse and the fact that my bosses, the archangels, tried to kill me?”

Anathema makes a face. “Well, when you put it that way…” 

“Look, I understand that you’re trying to help. But my understanding of therapy is that it requires actually discussing the trauma in detail with a therapist, and to do that, I would have to reveal that not only am I immortal, having been around since before the literal dawn of time, but that the world almost ended this past year, and that Heaven is not all it’s described to be- nor Hell either, for that matter. How can I possibly think to put that on a human being?”

Anathema folds her arms over her chest. “I’m human.”

“You’re the descendant of the most accurate prophet of all time, and have lived your entire life according to her prophecies,” Aziraphale points out. “You also literally faced down the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and witnessed Satan himself rising out of the ground. Forgive me for saying it, my dear, but you’re hardly the average human.” 

Anathema makes a face. “You’re right, and I hate it.” 

“You’re probably not wrong about this either, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “I doubt the problem will just go away if it hasn’t yet. I just… need to find something else that doesn’t involve going to a therapist.”

“What about medications?” Anathema suggests.

“Same problem, I presume. Besides, one most likely needs a properly human nervous system and vascular system to gain any kind of effect from a human medication,” Aziraphale points out. 

“A self help book?” Anathema asks. She sounds fairly exasperated.

“A book. Hmm,” Aziraphale says. “That doesn’t sound out of the question.” 

Anathema makes a noise that’s probably her saying ‘honestly’. “Alright, well... there are tons of therapy books out there. You could get one specifically written for people receiving therapy, or you could get a text book for therapists, or you could get those cheesy self help books. Actually, get something written by an actual psychologist. With an actual doctorate and clinical experience, preferably.” 

“That sounds… well, I could get a combination of the three,” Aziraphale says. 

Anathema rolls her eyes. “Of course you could. Any excuse to get more books. Please, just… get something written this decade, please? There’s a ton of outdated, harmful stuff out there.” 

Aziraphale, who’s thinking about the nonsense Freud spouted, nods in agreement. “Literature gets better with age. Scientific research is best consumed as soon as it’s published,” he agrees. 

“Quite,” Anathema says. “You know, I think Newt has a few books that he’s used. I can send you an email with them when I get back to Tadfield, if you’d like.”

“I don’t have an email.”

Anathema rolls her eyes. “Of course you don’t have an email.”

“Crowley has an email, though,” Aziraphale offers. 

“Sure, I can send it to him,” Anathema says. “What’s his address?”

“Oh, dear, I have no idea,” Aziraphale says. “I suppose I could ask him before you leave tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do that,” Anathema says. “If you don’t mind, I need to go to bed before the final interview tomorrow morning.”

Aziraphale glances at his pocket watch. “My goodness, look at the time. I’m so very sorry for keeping you awake, my dear!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Anathema says cheerily. “I’m glad we were able to figure out what the problem was.” 

***

Of course, now that he knows what the problem is, he has to  _ do _ something about it, and  _ that _ is far easier said than done. Anthema leaves a day and a half later, which means he absolutely  _ has _ to tell Crowley, so that he can find out about Newton’s books. The evening that Anathema heads back to Tadfield, he invites Crowley over to get properly sloshed. 

“Book girl’s off, then?” Crowley asks, taking stock of the human-less bookshop. 

“That she is,” Aziraphale says. “ _ Anathema  _ was quite lovely company, I will have you know,” he adds, stressing her name. 

Crowley raises a single eyebrow behind his shades. “You hate having people in your space.”

Aziraphale hands him a full glass of liquor. “She was gone most of the day, you know,” he says. “Interviewing for quite the prestigious postdoctoral position at the British Museum!”

“Please tell me you didn’t influence the employers,” Crowley says, rubbing his forehead. “We’re trying to keep a  _ low _ profile.”

Aziraphale takes a long drink of his alcohol. “Of course not,” he says. “Anathema is perfectly capable of getting such a position on her own merit. She’s quite a bright human, after all.” He takes another drink, barely noticing the taste. 

Crowley’s barely touched his own drink. He takes off his glasses, and pins Aziraphale with the full weight of his snake-like stare. “You’re drinking rather heavily. What aren’t you telling me?” he demands. 

Aziraphale drains his glass. “Anathema walked in on one of my little… ah… episodes,” he says. 

“What?” Crowley demands. “Angel, I really wish you’d let me get you a proper phone so you can call me when this happens.”

“I’m fine, dear,” Aziraphale lies reflexively. Crowley glares. “No, really, I’m fine. Anathema has a rather interesting theory about my problem.”

“What does that witch think?” 

Oh dear. She’s gone from ‘book girl’ to ‘that witch’, which isn’t a good sign. Aziraphale isn’t quite sure which bit has upset Crowley- that Anathema was the one to comfort him, or that the demon hadn’t been told- but if he doesn’t start digging now, this hole is going to swallow him. 

“Have you ever heard of post traumatic stress disorder?” Aziraphale asks quickly. “It used to be called s-“

“Shell shock,” Crowley finishes for him. “I saw plenty of soldiers suffering from it in the second War. Civilians, too.” His voice lowers into a grumble, here. 

“Well, it’s not exclusive to actual war,” Aziraphale says. “Anathema thinks that these episodes- panic attacks, she called them- are a symptom of a larger problem.”

Crowley scoots in close to him. “PTSD is extremely common in cases of long term abuse, as well,” he offers.

“Abuse?” Aziraphale squeaks. “My  _ dear _ boy, I hardly think that one week of extreme stress…”

“One _week_ _of extreme stress_?” Crowley parrots. “Angel, that’s… it’s not… urgh. I _heard_ how they talked to you, in Heaven. ‘Shut your stupid mouth and die already’? That doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. There was a clear escalation, somewhere. You don’t just talk like that to a valued employee- let alone when you’re supposed to be the embodiment of Love.”

“You can hardly blame them,” Aziraphale says. “I was hardly a good angel…”

Crowley chugs his entire glass. “ _ Someone _ , I can’t have this conversation sober. Look, your ability to do your job doesn’t determine your worth as a being.” 

“Crowley…”

“If you try to tell me I couldn’t understand you because I’m a demon, I’m going to throttle you, and not in a fun way, either,” Crowley snaps. “Look. You clearly  _ haven’t _ Fallen yet. Therefore, you haven’t lost Her favor. Saying otherwise is a blatant lie.”

Aziraphale thinks about being cornered by the three archangels outside his shop. “Not Falling and being a ‘good’ angel are different things.”

“If you haven’t Fallen, then you’re doing a bloody fabulous job of being an angel,” Crowley says. He rakes his hands through his hair. “Look, Aziraphale, have you ever heard the term gaslighting?”

“We lived through gas lighting, Crowley.”

“No, not gas lights, the  _ act _ of gaslighting.” 

“I suppose I haven’t, then,” Aziraphale admits. 

“It’s an extremely insidious form of abuse where the abuser fucks with the memory of the abused, calling their beliefs into doubt,” Crowley explains. “Like the flickering of a gas light- the abuser makes their victim doubt what they know to be true. A simple example would be if one partner claims they’ve stopped smoking, but the other partner swears up and down that they smelled cigarette smoke. The smoker might claim that the smell was in their head, or that it was coming in from outside. And the partner wants so badly to believe, that they accept they were wrong- even when the smoker had in fact been smoking.”

“And  _ what _ does this have to do with Heaven?” Aziraphale asks. 

“You know, there are five main characteristics of gaslighting. An abuser might withhold information, leaving one to believe something false. They might also trivialize the victim’s interests or beliefs. They frequently divert questioning away from a topic they want to avoid, changing the topic outright. Or, they may deny or directly counter events they want put in question. Does that sound like anything you’ve experienced in the last six thousand years?”

Aziraphale splutters, but the demon isn’t done. His voice drops to a whisper. “Go on. You know better than me unsubstantiated claims made by the archangels.”

Aziraphale’s stomach (or what would be his stomach, anyways) drops into the Abyssal Pit. He knows exactly what Crowley’s talking about.  _ Demons can’t love. We can’t stop the War, it’s written in the Great Plan. I don’t sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter.  _ “That’s… absolutely absurd,” he says. 

“Is it? Is it really?” Crowley asks. “Tell me how many times have you been told your interests aren’t important? How long were you strung along about the Apocalypse?”

“Crowley, stop this,” Aziraphale begs. 

“I know I’m right,” Crowley says. His voice gentles considerably. “You're so much better off without them, you know.”

Aziraphale pours himself another glass, both to have something to do with his hands, and to avoid the demon’s gaze. He pours the glass nearly to overflowing, drinks off the excess, and refills the cup to the brim again. 

The demon sighs. “I’m sorry, angel. I’ve upset you.”

“No, no,” Aziraphale dithers. 

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Aziraphale nibbles on his lip, and twists his free hand in his pant leg. He knows that the second he turns around, Crowley is going to read his every emotion on his face. Aziraphale turns to face him slowly, bracing himself for whatever he might find. 

Crowley offers him a small, gentle smile. “I’m sorry for upsetting you,” he offers. “You were telling me about Book Girl. Let’s go back to that.”

“No, no, you’re… you’re right,” Aziraphale says. Crowley blinks in surprise. “It’s… well, Heaven was awful. But we were always told that it was better than the alternative. At least you were still an angel, still had access to Her Grace, Her Love.”

“Hell isn’t exactly a cakewalk, that’s true,” Crowley agrees. “That being said, there’s no pretense made that Hell is awful. Mandatory torture every decade, constant infighting, the damp mixed with subtle hints of decay and rot… no, it’s not pleasant. But Hell makes no excuses for what it is, either.”

Aziraphale smiles tightly. “Heaven’s never tortured me. They don’t get  _ physical _ .” Even as he says it, he knows it to be a lie. He got punched in the gut less than a week ago. 

Crowley gives him a tight lipped, sardonic smile of his own. “Abuse doesn’t  _ have _ to be physical. In some respects, it’s worse when it’s only mental or emotional. The only scars are inside, where no one can see them. Not even you.”

Aziraphale eyes his drink, on the table next to the couch. It’s looking a bit too full for this conversation. He gulps down some more, noting only the way it burns his throat on the way down. 

“How do you know so much about this all?” he asks. He’s not entirely sure he wants to know the answer. 

“Demon, remember?” Crowley asks. “We work with the worst of the worst. Sometimes Beezlbulb gets particularly depraved humans to give presentations to Earth agents on new techniques.”

“Delightful,” Aziraphale murmurs, finding it anything but. 

“The Marquis de Sade gave some particularly enlightening talks, among others,” Crowley adds. 

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “That’s… charming,” he says. 

“Eh. There’s a reason I spent as much time as I could on Earth,” Crowley says, making a vague, hand wavy gesture. “The point is, we got craft pointers from the very worst. After a few millennia, I was able to pick up the signs in you pretty clearly.”

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale squawks. 

“After you’ve just been to Heaven, or had an impromptu visit?” Crowley says, making it sound like a question. “You look more skittish. You’re far less likely to toss a coin for a job, and you’re much more likely to push me away. You spew far more Heavenly rhetoric after a visit. They replace your beliefs with their own.”

“I’m sorry, you know. You didn’t deserve that.”

Crowley shakes his head vigorously. “It’s not about me. It’s about what they did to  _ you _ .”

“ _ Doing _ makes it seem so active,” Aziraphale protests. “There was nothing so calculated, so overt.”

Crowley pours himself another glass, and takes a long draught. “That’s not… the whole point of gaslighting is that it doesn’t seem overt,” he says. “It’s literally designed to bring your self worth into question, while replacing the victim’s identity with one of the abuser’s choosing. Overt? No, of course not. But calculated? Absolutely.”

Aziraphale drains his glass again. He’s rapidly leaving ‘slightly buzzed’ and approaching ‘tipsy to the point of forgetting propriety’, which is still not fast enough for this conversation. “How exactly is it that Heaven gets to be the good guys?” he asks bitterly.

“To the victor goes the rights of telling the story, angel, you know that,” Crowley says. “Heaven and Hell are nothing more than two sides of the same coin, and make no mistake about it.” 

The two of them stare at each other for several long moments. Aziraphale’s hand twitches towards the half full bottle on the table. Crowley drains his glass, and holds it out for Aziraphale to fill. They both drink, slower this time. 

“My initial point, my dear, was that Anathema offered to send me some books her young man has found useful to reduce these panic attacks,” Aziraphale says. 

“You don’t have an email, though.”

“I gave her yours.”

“If you’d just let me set you up…”

“I have survived six thousand years without an email, and I don’t intend to start depending on one now,” Aziraphale says haughtily. “Technology may be eclipsing the printed word, but I refuse to go quietly.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Honestly, angel. You can read books on the computer or phone!”

“I will not shackle myself to a screen for the sake of  _ convenience _ ,” Aziraphale declares. 

“Whatever, angel. It’s not as if this isn’t the next biggest thing in printing since the printing press. Of  _ course _ I’ll tell you what miserable therapy books book girl sends my way,” Crowley says. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale replies. 

The conversation naturally lulls. Aziraphale finds himself leaning against the demon in his inebriated state, letting Crowley run his hands soothingly over his body. The silence is perfectly peaceful- but that doesn’t stop Aziraphale’s thoughts from spinning. 

“Crowley?” 

“Hmm?” the demon asks. 

“Why  _ do _ people gaslight?” 

The silence stretches, and Aziraphale is almost afraid that Crowley won’t answer him. A tightening of fingers around his arm is his only warning. “I don’t have an answer for every case, angel. For some, it’s power, or control, or both. For Heaven? I’d guess it’s an efficient way to bring wayward angels back under the party line.”

“What does it say about me that I fell for it?”

Aziraphale feels himself pushed to the side, and then the demon is kneeling in front of him, grabbing at his arms. “Angel,  _ no _ .”

Aziraphale ducks his head away. “If I was a better angel, a better friend…” 

He’s stopped by a single finger covering his lips. The single finger turns into a gentle grip on his chin, forcing him to look at Crowley. Churlishly, Aziraphale closes his eyes. 

“Angel,  _ listen to me _ ,” Crowley demands. “There is nothing wrong with you. The abuse you suffered has everything to do with Heaven, not you.  _ They’re _ the ones who deliberately fucked around with your head. What were you supposed to do- distrust them? You had no reason to! Heaven is supposed to be the good guys. How could you have known what they were doing to you?”

Aziraphale blinks back tears as he opens his eyes. Crowley’s serpent-yellow eyes are blazing with righteous fury and deep concern. 

“You’ve been telling me what was right for six thousand years,” Aziraphale says, voice small. 

“Bollocks to that. You never needed anyone to tell you what was right. You gave your sword to Adam and Chava before we’d ever met.”

“The Flood? The Crucifixion? You’ve had to be my conscience plenty of times, Crowley. I fell right in with the party line.”

“You had no  _ reason _ to believe me, angel. I’m a demon- the ‘party line’, as you put it, is that demons are fundamentally bad. The fact that you talked to me at all is nothing short of a miracle.”

Aziraphale sniffs. “You’ve never lied to me.”

Crowley caresses his face with both hands. “That’s not the point. The point is, if you’d really followed the party line, buckled down as a good little angel should, you’d have smote me on sight. You’ve always had a better moral compass than those holier-than-thou pricks on High. It’s probably why they were so keen to bring you back in line in the first place.”

“If I had been better…”

“No, angel,” Crowley repeats firmly. He brings Aziraphale’s face towards him, leaning their foreheads together. “You’ll tear yourself apart with thoughts of what-if.”

“But…”

“Here’s a what-if for you,” Crowkey interrupts. “What if you  _ had _ broken free, and defied Gabriel centuries ago. Say, the Crucifixion. That gives you a good four thousand years to shake off the brain washing. Say you did something drastic, like saving Yeshua. We’ve seen what lengths Heaven is willing to go to to keep order. What would Gabriel have done, hmm?”

Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s grasp, staring at him. “Well, I…” 

Crowley sits back on his haunches, golden eyes unblinking. “Maybe you’d Fall. Hard to really say just how much She was really calling the shots back then, and how much was Gabriel. But the more likely outcome? You’dve had a Hellfire execution back then, but no switch-a-roo to save you.”

Aziraphale lets his head sink into his hands, bracing himself against his knees. “It hurts,” he murmurs. A few tears drip out of his eyes to roll down his cheeks. 

Crowley brushes the tears away with careful fingers. “I wish it didn’t, angel.”

It’s as though those words are the key to the floodgates. The tears flow freely, coursing across his face and wracking his body with sobs and gasps. He’s barely conscious of Crowley shifting back to the couch to hold him as he cries. 

“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry.” 

Aziraphale barely hears him, consumed with the feeling of his chest being ripped apart. He curls further into Crowley’s chest, making himself as small as he can. The tears flow and flow, seemingly an inexhaustible resource. There’s no apparent end in sight. 

Crowley is still murmuring soothing things to him. “Sorry,” Aziraphale hiccups in between sobs. 

“Why?” Crowley asks. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m… better than this,” Aziraphale gasps. “Should be.”

Crowley presses a kiss against his forehead. “You have  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for. You don’t have to be  _ anything _ , Aziraphale. You don’t owe anyone anything. The only beings who should apologize never will.”

Aziraphale shakes his head furiously, unable to shake the thought. “Crowley…” 

“No, angel. Don’t apologize to me,” Crowley says, cutting him off. 

“Then what… I just… have all these emotions, and I don’t know what to  _ do  _ with them,” Aziraphale says, burying his head into Crowley’s neck. “It’s like… it’s like everything’s been behind a glass wall and I could see it but not engage with it. Suddenly, I was leaning against the glass when it disappeared, and I’ve fallen headfirst into… something.”

“I think that’s a normal human trauma response,” Crowley says, after it becomes apparent that Aziraphale doesn’t have the words to go on. 

Aziraphale snorts, an odd sound through his tears. “What about us is  _ normal, _ Crowley?”

“I don’t think the angelic or demonic psyche is terribly different from the human one, albeit on a larger scale,” Crowley replies, continuing to stroke the angel’s hair. “After all, wasn’t that the point of humans?”

“Made in Her image,” Aziraphale murmurs. He’s starting to breathe easier, now, but that hardly means that the whirlwind of emotions has calmed any. 

“To some extent, we were too. You and I are proof that it’s possible to ‘go native’, as it were. Shouldn’t it follow that we’re just as capable of all the negative things as we are the positive things?” 

“Wish we weren’t the only ones affected,” Aziraphale grumbles.

“Yeah, well… if that prick Gabriel were capable of having a conscience, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Crowley growls. “You know, I really wish I had been more about results and less about the fear factor back in Heaven. Then that lump of shit would be ashes.” 

Aziraphale chews his lip, the tears forgotten for the moment. “Crowley, dear, if you had murdered one Archangel, let alone three, you would have brought the Holy and Righteous Wrath of the entire Host done upon us. Then there would have been a war, even if it wasn’t The War.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t dream about the look on his smug face as his dumb violet eyes widen in surprise when the Hellfire takes over his body.” 

“You still would have had to escape Heaven, though,” Aziraphale reminds him. “The pillar of Hellfire wouldn’t just come with you.”

“Eh. I know it’s not realistic. But a demon’s gotta have some dreams, yeah?” Crowley asks. “Come on. Don’t tell me that you don’t love the image of that bastard finally getting what’s coming to him.”

Aziraphale dithers. “That seems a little harsh.”

“Angel, he tried to  _ incinerate you out of existence _ ,” Crowley says. “I think that’s absolutely no  _ less _ than he deserves.”

“That’s… I don’t want anyone permanently dead because of me!”

“They were ready to wipe you out of this plane of existence.”

Aziraphale covers his ears, unable to keep going. “I  _ can’t _ , Crowley.”

The demon rubs his back gently. “Sorry, Aziraphale. I got a little carried away.”

“What else have I learned that’s been nothing more than a lie?” Aziraphale asks, chest feeling hollow and fragile. He might as well be an eggshell- breakable at the slightest provocation. 

“I don’t know, angel. But we have all the time in the world to find out- together.”

Aziraphale lets himself be comforted, leaning against the demon’s slight frame. The weight of the conversation combined with the alcohol settle around him, leaving him laden with exhaustion. Even breathing feels difficult. 

Fortunately, he has an option to not breathe. 

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks. 

“Mmmh. Everything’s too much,” Aziraphale murmurs. “It’s just… too hard.”

“Some sleep, then? Might make it all easier in the morning,” Crowley offers. 

“Alright, then,” Aziraphale agrees. He allows the demon to lead him up the stairs to the flat above the bookshop. “Will you stay?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” Crowley promises. He snaps his fingers, and they’re both clad in pyjamas. Crowley has put himself into black silken pants with a cotton tank top, and the angel into a soft, cream colored flannel. Aziraphale looks over, and sees his clothes folded neatly on the chair in the room. “C’mon angel. You need some rest,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale arranges himself under the covers, and curls around the demon. “I love you, darling. Thank you,” he whispers. 

He’s asleep before Crowley can respond. 


End file.
